“Then he’s doing this because he needs the fighters. And by the sounds of it, he’s after the best ones.”
“Not the best. He hasn’t come to my Haven.”
“Not yet.” This was worse than Roman had imagined. One Adrenalite working alone was difficult enough to stop, and Candle was forming a whole team of them. How the hell could Roman deal with that? A headache began to pound in the front of his skull, and the shouting of the crowd did nothing to help. “Explain how the fuck I haven’t heard about this until now?”
“No offense, my good man, but you are a bounty hunter who works for that snake Juliette.” Gavin spat her name. “There are situations that people like me want you involved in, and there are situations when we don’t want you involved. That is one of the latter.”
“Then why are you telling me?”
Gavin smiled. Roman really wished he hadn’t. “Because I have a proposition for you.”
“I’m listening.”
“I want Candle, alive. So whatever Juliette is paying you for his head, I’ll double it.”
Roman shook his head. There was no way in hell he would let Gavin get hold of Candle. First chance he got, Roman was going to put a bullet in Candle’s brain. “I don’t do this for the money.”
“Oh, because revenge is a far more noble motivation?”
“This isn’t about revenge.”
“So your friend’s death had nothing to do with you becoming a bounty hunter? What was his name — Stevens, wasn’t it?”
Roman’s hands formed fists. “Shut the fuck up. Right now.”
Ruby put a hand on his shoulder. Her eyes met his, and he could easily read her thoughts: Calm down. Insulting Gavin here would end up with us both dead.
He took a deep breath and ignored his impulse to grab Gavin by his thick neck and pound his face into the bleachers.
“So,” Ruby said, “why is he called Candle?”
“That’s what we call him, my dear,” Gavin said. “Because he has a peculiar habit of leaving candles behind after each attack.”
Roman filed that information away for later; maybe they could use it to track Candle down. He had to be getting the candles from somewhere, and there were very few candle-makers in Legacy, it was mostly a lost art.
Their conversation was lost in an abrupt roar from the crowd. Roman switched his gaze to the fighters below; by now, the blue lines extending from their chests stretched out to their forearms. Punches became faster and wilder as their unnatural strength grew. Rusty looked worse for wear, reeling from a blow to the face. His weak leg gave out and he tumbled to the ground. His opponent leapt on him. Roman saw Rusty scream, unheard amongst the crowds deafening shouts.
Rusty managed to roll away, regaining his footing just in time to defend himself from another onslaught of attacks. There would be no respite now that he was clearly disadvantaged. He retreated two steps.
Roman cast his eyes downward, ashamed of how much the fight excited him. He was meant to be better than assholes like Gavin.
“Have you heard of Ashton Spencer?” he asked.
Gavin didn’t take his eyes off the fight. “Never heard of him,” he said quickly. Too quickly.
He’s lying. A shared glance with Ruby told Roman that she thought so too. But why? he wondered. What possible interest would Gavin have in an ex-ministry scientist? Maybe he sees Spencer as a threat; if Spencer completes his serum and the ministry uses it to permanently deactivate all Adrenalites, then Gavin would lose a huge part of his business.
But still, why lie about it?
Roman scratched his neck while he considered this, trying to look at anything but the fight. It wasn’t easy — there was something about violence that made it hard to ignore. He looked around the crowd, a mob of men and women with nothing to do but watch fights to distract themselves from the state of the world. Roman spared a glance towards One-ear. Not even he was paying Roman any attention. Every gaze was on the fight below. Except—
A pair of Gavin’s men were in an animated discussion at the other end of the hall. One pointed up at the bleachers to where Roman and Gavin stood, and the other began to make his way around towards them. Roman reached one hand into his coat, finding the reassuring grip of his pistol.
Damn, are all of Gavin’s men mutants of some kind? he wondered as the thug got close enough for Roman to see his oversize, bent nose. Do they feel some sort of kinship to him?
The thug climbed the bleachers, shuffling along their aisle. Irritated spectators grumbled as they made space for him. Roman saw that he was unarmed and he let out the breath he had been holding.
Gavin looked ready to murder the thug for blocking his view of the fight, but nevertheless leaned forward to let him whisper in his ear.
“I’ll come now,” Gavin said, before turning to Roman. “I’m terribly sorry, my good man and my fair lady, but I have business to attend to. I hope you don’t forget my offer. You know I’m good for it.”
Roman watched Gavin leave. “We’re following him.”
Ruby nodded. “Leaving mid-fight isn’t like Gavin. Although there’s not much left, anyway. You owe me ten credits.”
“Huh? But—” Roman turned back to the fight. Somehow Rusty had his opponent pinned against the floor. Blood poured from the larger boy’s face and one of his legs was broken. Rusty let out a whoop of victory as the guards encircled him. The referee stepped forward and swiftly injected him in the neck before leaping backwards.
The defeated fighter’s screams of pain were loud enough to be heard over the crowd. Roman wondered if the boy’s leg would ever heal enough to walk on. Hopefully not.
Turning back to see Gavin already halfway down the bleachers, Roman set chase.
07
The cage door slammed behind Sparks. With an ominous click, the padlock fastened close.
He bounced from foot to foot, blood pumping, alive with anticipation. Now that he stood in the arena, the aches in his ribs and shoulder were distant concerns. This was his element. Mole was going to learn that. Painfully.
The square room was nearly twenty yards from wall to wall, with the cage in the middle taking up most of the space. The wooden floor was worn, splintered, and, right under Sparks’ feet, bloodstained. He scowled through the steel bars at the spectators. They didn’t cheer or shout, but instead watched him and Mole with calculating gazes. More than a few looked openly dismayed at Sparks’ bruised appearance. This was the worst type of crowd. They didn’t appreciate the beauty of a fight, all they cared about was the outcome — whether their bets had been profitable or not.
Four thugs patrolled just outside the cage. Sparks waved at the nearest one, an older man with eyes too close together. “Wanna come in and join? There’s always room for one more.”
The thug responded by pointing his crossbow at Sparks’ chest.
“Hey, kid.” Caleb appeared, sticking his head through the bars, or trying to, at least. His skull was far too big. “What the hell happened to you?”
“That bastard happened.” Sparks nodded his head towards Mole, who was conferring with his own master at the opposite end of the cage. “He found out I’m working for Roman. Thinks I’m a fucking traitor.” Sparks spat. “The shit-talker is going to try kill me.”
Caleb’s face went pale.
Sparks laughed. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t stand a–”
He cut himself short when he saw Mole holding a pen-knife.
“Uh… Caleb,” he said. “Why is he armed?”